


warm water

by aosc



Category: Uncharted (Video Games)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-25
Updated: 2016-09-25
Packaged: 2018-08-17 06:11:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,788
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8133263
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aosc/pseuds/aosc
Summary: Standing on the brink of a very particular precipice: or, a dinner in New Orleans.





	

* * *

 

There's a ridiculousness to being nervous in front of such a triviality as this, Sam thinks. He rolls his neck, sinks deeper onto the leg he's resting on. The baggage drop is fifteen minutes late, and by the time they'll have gotten it rolling, Nathan will have chalked the tardiness up to him having missed the flight, or something of equal measure. His brother's impatient - always has been. Was a little kid who couldn't fall asleep because he was waiting on sunrise to just appear, above the apex of the distant close city roofs, because he thought surely, it'd been long enough.

 

His phone buzzes against his thigh. He can count on one hand's worth of fingers who have the number he's currently on, so. He slides it up, presses forth the call. "Uh huh?" he asks, pushing the phone to rest wedged between his shoulder and his ear.

 

"Hey, man," comes Nathan's static voice over the speaker, "Be nice if you could, y'know, hurry up. Me and the car'll set out here at this pace."

 

Sam rolls his eyes. "Patience - is a virtue, little brother. Of which you have none."

 

"I have no virtues left, and neither do you, so."

 

"Careful, that's practically blasphemous, Nathan."

 

"I'm a man of hunger, _Sam_ ," Nathan whines, "And it's gonna take us a while to get out of afternoon traffic. So, find your luggage, let's go."

 

Sam laughs. There's a knot of worry there - dealing with later, speaking of - but, it's loosening. Family, he thinks, Christ. "Fine, fine. Looks like it's rolling now. You in the garage?"

 

"Yep, big Chrysler. Top floor. You should see me once you get out of the building, if you go straight down from Baggage Claim."

 

"Perfect," Sam says, and twists around to locate an escalator sign a little up ahead in the corridor, stretching down below. Another sign, proclaiming _Short Term Garage_ , sits a little behind it. "See you soon," he says, and kills the conversation.

 

*

 

Louisiana is sticky warm.

 

Given that he's recently island hopped after a somewhat decent source had let slip that a man somewhere down the long line of informants used by an old associate of Chloé Frazer, was close to the guns hired for uncovering what was said to be William Kidd's actual treasure cove, somewhere in the vicinity of where the _Merchant_ was found, off of La Romana, Sam thinks he'd by now grown used to it. But stepping outside of Louis Armstrong, even in the shade of the garage - was sweltering. Hopping out of the car alongside Nathan, away from the cool safety of the Chrysler's AC blasts, is worse.

 

He looks up at the house, situated, neat and boxed in between identical houses, stretching in a curving row down the street, with its white picket fence, and its trimmed lawn. He pushes the back door of the Chrysler shut after having shouldered his bag, and follows Nathan up the driveway.

 

"I have to say, Nathan; I never would've pegged you for a mower," Sam says, "A regular guy, who mows his front lawn to perfection, drives a diesel, even owns a _dog_."

 

Nathan twists his head mid stride, eyebrow hitching. He smirks, slightly. "It's a superiorly mowed lawn," he replies, satisfied, "But the dog's sort of Sully's fault, I can't take full credit."

 

Sam snorts. "Somehow, I'm not surprised."

 

"It was a joint idea, I can admit, but he did buy it. Ergo, his fault."

 

"And it's called Victor," Sam says.

 

"And it's called Victor," Nathan confirms. "That was my idea, though."

 

Said dog is the thing that slams so harshly into Sam's kneecaps even he feels his age. It barks, and slinks around his legs, tail wagging violently at his thighs. Nathan's come to a crouch beside him in the yawn of the door, wrestling with it lightly, pushing at its neck while it reaches, tongue lolling, for Nathan's face. His baby brother - laughing, murmuring nonsense, there's a picture for hypothetical albums - well, there are days when Sam is reverently thankful this all worked out, after all.

 

"Victor!" Comes a voice from around the bend of a door frame to the far ahead left. The dog freezes at Nathan's feet, and directs its full attention to the origins of the voice. Sam clears his throat, suddenly full again, of the earlier discomfort that plagues him at the very rare moments when he does feel his nerves.

 

Elena rounds the corner, and while her eyes immediately flick to Sam, she reverts quickly to the dog. "Here," she says, and snaps her fingers towards the spot just by her feet. The yellow retreiver obediently trots over, and sinks down to sit erect beside her left knee. "Good," Elena permits, "Now stay. It's rude to jump a guest, the first thing you do." She looks up at Sam, a small smile breaking in the corners of her mouth. "Sam," she greets.

 

"Elena, beautiful as a day," Sam says, and crowds her in a somewhat familiar, if short, embrace. "Good thing you're keeping them both on a tight leash."

 

Elena rolls her eyes. "Glad you could make it," she says, ignoring the better part of his comments.

 

Sam inclines his head. "Always."

 

*

 

The house is - perhaps what he imagined, for Nathan combined with somebody else. It's cluttered, but not with anything that screams of Nathan - but there are touches of Sam's baby brother in it. The living room has antiquities, just minor stuff, but valuable to the eye, strewn across flat surfaces. There's a mirror leaned towards the southeastern wall, its frame ornate and dusty brass. Two walls are lined with books, cracked spines with thick lettering in Latin, Hebrew, Italian, Spanish - none of them are mint, all of them well read. The single framed painting is of the cityscape of Cartagena, Sam half guesses, half remembers. It's above the sofa, mirroring the placement of the TV. Veering out of the living room, it immediately connects to the kitchen.

 

Elena is switching the stove off, balancing a pot with a kettle holder beneath on her right knee, whilst stirring a sauté pan. Nathan is shoving around in the fridge. He twist his head to look behind him. "Hey, Sam," he says, and resumes rummaging in the florescent light spilling from the top shelf. "What're you drinking?"

 

"You got any decent beer?" Sam asks.

 

Nathan emerges, two flasks with some obscure yellow etiquette plastered on them between three fingers. When Sam lifts a brow, Nathan shrugs, a little defensively, "It's a thing," he means, "Microbrews."

 

"Psh," Sam snorts, "Nathan, you're greying, you're not supposed to be in with the kids. I hear what they're drinking these days'll have you killed."

 

Nathan tosses him one of the bottles. "What you're inhaling on a daily basis'll have _you_ killed," he says, pointing at Sam with the butt of his bottle. Sam flips him off.

 

"Boys," Elena chides from the table. "Behave."

 

Nathan grins, and swoops in to plant a kiss at the top of her cheekbone. She elbows him in the hip.

 

Elena's been camped out in the kitchen all day, she means, so she hopes it'll be good. They have dal, made on traditional black urad, with naan, pomegranate seeds and a variety of oils, travelled a long way from northern India.

 

"This is amazing," Sam says, and breaks another piece of bread to scoop the lentils with. "Old family recipe?"

 

"Thanks," Elena says, "It is, actually. It was the only souvenir I got to take home with me from a coverage we did in Punjab a few years back."

 

"One of the better food experiences we've collected from the Himalayas," Nathan says, in between sips of his beer. "I mean, Tenzin saved my life, but that night when we ate with the village council - "

 

Elena laughs. "Okay, hold on. That was, what, eight years ago? And you're still being a baby about it - one meal?"

 

Sam looks between the two of them. "Now I obviously have got to hear the rest of this."

 

Nathan makes a face, his mouth twisting. "I'm not being a baby," he protests, "I have eaten many, many things, in the history of me. But that - " He makes a point to shudder.

 

Elena rolls her eyes. "Your  _baby_  brother, shoveled it down until he made a point of asking what it actually was that he was eating."

 

"Sheep's head," Nathan supplies, solemnly. "Stewed."

 

"Which is also a part of the sheep that needs to be used, somehow," Elena protests.

 

"I'm not eating lamb to this day," Nathan says.

 

Sam laughs. "Okay, okay. And this was in 2009? When you found Shambala?"

 

Nathan nods, and looks to Elena. "Probably our most fatal adventure to date. Well. Almost."

 

"You always bring up the greatest parts, you storyteller, you."

 

"Well, it _was_. You don't become a legend until you've overcome the greatest obstacles on your way to discovering the greatest treasures, now do you."

 

"Is that your way of telling us you think you're a legend?"

 

And - Sam looks at his little brother, feigning humility, face crooked with held back laughter, and thinks that he is. That for each and every story that slowly unfolds by the way of Nathan sharing little pieces of his memories, of his experiences, Sam sees how he is. Here is little Nathan, not so little anymore, dissecting fables - the things most people could only imagine were real, at the dinner table. Around the room are snapshots, polaroid pictures snapped at moment's notice, from all of these distant adventures, fastened to the walls with Blu-Tack. Now, Sam had the pleasure of tagging along on one of these great discoveries, enough to last him for a lifetime - and this is just, out of his ballpark. Not even in his state. These two people -

 

"Sam? 'Lo? Earth transmitting."

 

Sam looks up at Nathan, at Elena. He realizes he's standing on the edge of a very particular, and very peculiar, precipice: the one in which tripping off will mean realizing that the relay stick will always have been Nathan's, ahead of him. The guts, and the glory, will always have been the belongings of the one in their brotherhood not Sam. The people of this household. Both of them. Not him.

 

"Oh, I'm sorry - zoning out when you're talking's a bad habit of mine that I'm having a hard time kicking," Sam smirks. Nathan sticks his tongue out, and Elena laughs - a deep throated, real thing.

 

The knot that's been at the base of his throat all day is slowly loosening, sliding down his throat, dissipating in his stomach, as the moment crystallizes, becomes something that he can hold on to, and trust himself to have, to keep.

 

*

**Author's Note:**

> troy baker talked in an interview about sam seeing himself jealous of nate a lot; of having been the golden child, until nate came along. i played with it a little, though ultimately thinking that at some point, that jealousy dissipates, becomes something familial, once he realizes that there's actually a family to have in nate and elena.
> 
> /end blurb. just to give the piece context, given that it's picked out of the blue slice of life.


End file.
